


Mycoff

by dragonaderp



Series: Mycoff [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft Worries, Poor Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonaderp/pseuds/dragonaderp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up was never easy for Sherlock, but Mycroft doesn't realise just how difficult.</p>
<p>From Mycroft's POV, this is a story recounting the difficult years of childhood for the two boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sir" Mycroft started, looking up into the eyes of a nurse.   
"Yes, sorry." Mycroft drew himself up straight, leaning on his new umbrella. His mother had given it to him as a present, telling him it was more of a metaphor than anything, a shield against anything life could pour on him. It was not helping now.  
"You can go in now, though he isn't conscious. The drugs are still being filtered out of his system. He is, however, stable."   
Mycroft thanked her again, before she left him at the door to room 221. He breathed in once before walking, to see his brother alone, lying on the bed, his face paler than he had ever seen before.  
He sat down in the hard plastic seat that was standard for the hospital, left to contemplate his guilt as he waited for his baby brother to wake up.  
\---flashback---  
"Mummy" Sherlock sniffled, clutching at his mother's dress tiredly as she continued sewing. "When's Mycoff comin' home?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes with a tiny fist.   
"Soon, love. I already told you he would be late, he went over to a friend's for the evening."  
"Aren't I his fwend?" he whimpered, fat tears brimming in his over-tired eyes. As she sighed, the mop of curls over her son's eyes was pushed out of the way as she put a hand on his face, kissing his forehead.  
"He has friends his own age, Sherlock. He won't always be here. Besides, soon he'll be going to big school, and he won't be back for a long time. You should spend more time with the nanny."  
"But she's boring." he complained in his high pitched voice.  
"Well, you have no one else here. You'll just have to make do. Don't forget your manners, or you'll hurts nanny's feelings."  
"I don't care about her feelings" Sherlock tried to fold his arms, scrunching up his face. "she told me I was stwange." Cynthia's eyes narrowed, before her face regained its passive mask.  
"Well, how about we get a new nanny then?" she suggested, to Sherlock's delight.  
"Thank you mummy." he cried, then skipped away, almost tripping on his socks as he flew out the door.   
Later that night, Cynthia passed by the front hallway, by the main door, and saw Sherlock curled up in a chair, fast asleep, no doubt waiting for his brother. She sighed affectionately as she rubbed his cheek. She knew if she tried moving him, he would immediately wake up and demand to be left where he was. As she checked the clock, she realised it was past his bedtime, but allowed him to stay as he was asleep. She walked away, up to her room. Mycroft would put him to bed.  
Later on, when Mycroft finally did come in, he frowned as he saw his baby brother curled up in an armchair.   
"Silly sod..." he muttered to himself as he went over and gently woke him. As his little eyes opened, they widened as they came into focus on him.  
"Mycoff!" he whispered excitedly as he hopped down from the seat, hugging onto one of his legs. Mycroft patted his back, trying to walk, but finding it impossible.  
"Come on, Sherlock, time for bed. You should have been put up hours ago." He bent down and picked up the wriggling body of excitement, who latched onto his neck as he started to climb the stairs. "Is father home, Sherlock?"  
"No, he's gone on a buses trip." he said quickly.  
"You mean business?" Mycroft laughed, causing Sherlock to frown.  
"I don't, I mean buses. He said a buses trip and he wouldn't be home for a fourth night."  
"A fortnight, you mean?" Mycroft corrected him again, amused as his little brother buried his curly haired head into his neck, frustrated.  
"Just cause you're older doesn't make you clevererer."  
"While that's true, you're only three. You don't have a brilliant grasp of memory skills, obviously." he muttered, laying his brother down onto his bed. The boy lay still for all of two seconds before sitting up, energy renewed.   
"Mycoff, we're getting a new nanny!"  
"Oh Sherlock, what did you do this time?"   
Mycroft remembered the last nanny getting fired when Sherlock remarked in front of guests that he wasn't aware that you could have more than one partner at a time, like the nanny. Needless to say, father's guests had been appalled at the thought of father's nanny being an adulteress and he had fired her on the spot. From that day, Sherlock hadn't been allowed at dinner when there were guests around, instead made to eat in the kitchen with cook.  
"It wasn't my fault, Mycoff. Mummy just said I was getting a new one!"  
"Are you sure? What did you tell her? Nothing about nanny, I hope?" Sherlock looked slightly guilty, in that way that three years olds always do.  
"Well, I told mummy that she called me stwange, and mummy was angry. I didn't do anything, promise." his eyes widened as he looked into Mycroft's almost pleading him to believe him.  
"Oh, well, that's alright then. Goodnight, Sherlock, I'll see you in the morning." he ruffled the child's hair before backing away.  
As he walked away, he saw Sherlock fall back onto his pillow, falling asleep just as fast. He smiled the smile he saved only for his brother, before walking out and closing the door.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, waking the boy. "You'll be late for your first day of school, hurry up and come get breakfast."

He hopped from bed, swiftly donning the new uniform his nanny had lain out for him the night before. He much preferred Mrs. Hudson, she didn't call him strange or get angry when he told her secrets that others couldn't see, instead telling him to just not tell others. She was nice, convincing cook to make him cakes every now and again. He hoped mummy wouldn't fire her too, especially since she had been here for nearly three years already. He'd rather not get used to somebody new.

Slipping on his shoes, he hurriedly grabbed his bag, pelting down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, go sit in the dining room, and I'll bring it out."

"But it's faster like this! It's tedious eating with a knife and fork!"

"It's eggs, Sherlock, you have to use cutlery. Also, your father is dining with us this morning, so go in and behave." she said, almost scolding, but they both knew she wasn't in any way angry.

"Father's back!" he flew into the dining room, grinning.

"You're home!" he cried as he hugged his father's side, who was sitting at the table, already eating.

"Yes, and I would appreciate it if you would let go." he said coldly, causing Sherlock to let go abruptly, his mood dampened.

"Yes, father." he said, sitting down. Seeing him slump in his seat, his father told him off again.

"Sit up straight, you are not a street urchin. I won't have any son of mine behaving like an itinerant."

As he sat up properly, his mother came in, a slight frown worrying her face.

"Siger." she said softly as she sat down, seeing her son looking down. The man sighed, before beckoning to Sherlock.

"Come here." the child hopped down from the seat, walking over to his father, who undid his tie and proceeded to do it correctly.

"There. We can't have people thinking little of you on your first day. You must do me proud, yes?" he said, trying for a smile, but all Sherlock saw was a thinly drawn line portrayed by even thinner lips.

"Yes, father." he said before sitting back in his seat, now straight, while Mrs. Hudson put his eggs in front of him. As he began to devour them, he quickly realised, he was probably not eating in a way that his father would deem proper, and so slowed down, taking care as he put every piece of egg in his mouth slowly, watching his posture the whole time. He would make him proud, like father was proud of Mycroft. 

Mycroft, who he hadn't seen in two weeks. God, how he missed him. As he stood, mummy started coughing, obviously still sick since last week. It was strange, surely she should be improving by now. Sherlock dismissed it; he had more to worry about than mummy's cough. He had school.

~later~

"Good morning class, now, as this is your first day at school, I'd like you all to introduce yourselves as we go around the class." Mrs. Adams said sweetly, almost too sweetly. Sherlock could read all of the dirty acts she committed when she was at home, had spotted a pair of cuffs in her bag as she had stuffed it inside her cupboard when they were all sitting down. She was in clothes that were slightly creased, despite being part of what was obviously a smart suit; conclusion, she had stayed at a lover's house and came to school from there, hence the lack of a change of clothes.

"Young man, pay attention, it's your turn." she quipped at him, and he started before standing up and saying his name.

"That's a funny name." the girl next to him smirked, before standing and saying her own.

"Sally O' Donovan."

"Well, your name is very common. I don't see your point."

"Wow, are you posh or something?"

"I think so. Mummy says so, at least."

"Well, you seem strange." she muttered.

"Don't call me that." he said, now irritated.

"Why, what will you do, tell mummy?"

"No, I'll tell Mycroft."

"Oh, I'm scared. Posh little Mycroft will hit me with his manners and posh talk?"

"Shut up..." he grumbled, before his eyes widened as he saw Miss Adams staring at him.

"Pardon, Sherlock?"

"Nothing, Miss Adams." he looked down into his lap as Sally sniggered, leaning over and whispering to someone called something like Anderson. Not that he cared to find out his first name, really.

"I will not tolerate talking in my class, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes." he muttered.

As the day proceeded, he found himself less and less enthusiastic about the idea of school. It was boring, he already knew everything they were doing.

"Miss Adams, I already know this. Can I do something different?"

She turned her head from the board where she was explaining a maths question, her eyes settling on him.

"No, Sherlock, everyone will do the same thing. Quiet down." and with that she continued.

When lunch came around, he was no happier.

"So, what do your parents do?" Sally asked, apparently the only one who would even talk to him, since most people had friends from around already.

"Well, mummy stays at home, but father goes out on business trips. I don't really know what he does, though."

"That sounds boring." Anderson said drolly.

"Well, it's more interesting than a tailor." Anderson spluttered.

"Who told you my dad was a tailor?!"

"Nobody. I saw."

"You saw? Have you been watching me?"

"No, but I can see that your father obviously works from home. When you got out of the car, your father was the one who dropped you off. His eyes looked exhausted, so if your mum was able to drop you, she would have, meaning your mother is either very sick or not with you."

Anderson gulped and Sally's eyes widened as Sherlock continued.

"That means that your father is working from home. I said he's a tailor because your uniform is a hand-me-down. Tailoring isn't a well paying job, and the sewing job to take up the ends of your trousers is very professional, something your family couldn't pay for. Conclusion; your father is a tailor."

"Sally, I don't like him."

"How do you know that?" she asked, looking slightly worried and disgusted.

"I observe."

"And what do you observe about me?"

"I know your family is just as well off as your friends', your mother doesn't work, and goes out with multiple men. When she dropped you off, I saw her slip off her wedding ring. Obviously she meets up with her other partners when your father is at work and you're at school. They've been married a long time judging by the level of tarnish on the ring, and it's clearly not a happy one."

"You're lying!" Anderson said loudly, suddenly upset. "Somebody told you!"

"No, I merely deduced from the facts presented to me. I'm guessing your mum doesn't live with you then, since you're upset?"

"My mum is dead!" he shouted, starting to cry.

"Go away, you freak!" Sally shouted at Sherlock, hugging Anderson. Sherlock backed away, looking like he had been stabbed.

"But, I didn't mean to upset him!" Sherlock tried, but Sally pushed him.

"Go away, we don't like you!"

At that moment Miss Adams walked over, looking irritated.

"What's going on here?"

"Sherlock's being mean." Anderson sobbed.

"Sherlock, what did you do?"

"I was just talking about his family, I didn't know his mum was dead! Honest." he kept trying to explain himself but she cut him off, merely signalling for him to be quiet.

"Now listen," she bent down and held Anderson's shoulder "I'm sure he didn't mean it. Do you want me to call dad?"

He nodded and she started to walk to the door, telling Sherlock to follow her.

She walked until she made it to the secretary, telling her to phone Anderson's father before leading Sherlock to the principal's office, marked Mr. Lesley.

"Wait here until you're called."

"What? But I didn't do anything!"

"I will not tolerate bad behaviour in my class. You will sit here, quietly, until you are called."

Sherlock slumped in his seat as he waited, fidgeting with his hands. As he sat, he got glares from any staff members that passed, muttering about early trouble-makers. He could tell the state of their relationships, their recent eating habits and occupation from what they were wearing and their demeanour, passing the time.

When he was finally called in, the principal looked fatigued.

"Yes, Mr...?"

"Holmes. Sherlock. Miss Adams sent me."

"Right, and what is it you possibly managed to do on your first day?"

"Well, Anderson asked how I knew his dad was a tailor and then I told him and then he got sad and I didn't know his mum was dead."

"Wait, what? Oh, that Anderson kid. Well, Sherlock, I know you might not have meant to but apparently he was very upset. This can't happen again or your parents will be contacted, all right?"

"You can't tell father! He'll be so angry! It won't happen again, Mr. Lesley, promise."

Unfortunately, it did.

He had been there merely two weeks before he was revisiting the office.

"Sherlock, what did I say?"

"But it wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know she didn't know her real father wasn't the man his mother married?"

"You...how did you know that?"

"Well it's obvious, isn't it? Her eyes are brown, yet both her parents eyes are blue."

"You're six! How do you even know about genetics?"

"Mycroft was studying one day, and I was bored. He taught me a little."

"Sherlock, the girl's parents have come in and complained. I have to contact your parents." he said, lifting up the phone.

"No! Mummy can't be disturbed, and Father will be angry if you call! He wants me to be like Mycroft!"

"Sherlock, it's school policy. You can't argue."

The boy looked like he wanted to protest but Mr. Lesley lifted a finger as he held the phone up to his ear before typing in the number and calling.

"Hello, to whom am I speaking?" he paused, waiting for an answer. Ah yes, Mr. Holmes. This is Sherlock's principal. I regret to inform you we've had a number of complaints about your son." another pause, and he frowns slightly. "No, Mr. Holmes, nothing too serious. We just need you to come in."

Sherlock's eyes widened, Father wouldn't be happy about this. Now he'd never be proud of him like he was of Mycroft.

Half an hour later, and his father, Siger Holmes was striding into the building, looking the embodiment of displeasure.

"Mr. Holmes." Mr. Lesley stood, shaking his hand. "Thank you for coming in on such short notice."

Sherlock was sent outside to wait, and ten minutes later, he was practically dragged out of his chair, stood on his feet and told to walk.

"But...what about school?" Sherlock asked.

"You're going home for the day. You'll be back Monday." his father said stiffly, leaving the building swiftly, not waiting to see if his son was following; he knew he would.

"I am so terribly disappointed in you. Why couldn't you be more like your brother? He is head of his year in Eton, and here you are, class clown. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, father. I didn't mean it." he muttered as he pulled open the door to their car.

"Speak louder, boy. I will not have you mumbling in my presence."

"I'm sorry, father."

"You will go to your room when we get home and you will not come out until tomorrow, do I make myself clear?" he spat out acerbically.

"Yes, father." he answered, making sure it was said clearly, before sitting inside. He was right, Father was very angry indeed.

~later~

A knock on the door startled him from his reading. slowly approaching the door, he pulled it open tentatively.

"Mycroft!" he cried out before a hand was put over his mouth and his older brother put a finger to his own lips.

"Shh. I'm not supposed to see you until tomorrow. I'm back for the weekend." he whispered.

"I missed you so much!" he whispered excitedly, hugging around Mycroft's middle tightly.

"I missed you too, Sherlock." he said, quietly closing the door after walking in. "Now tell me, what did you do to get sent home from school? Father is furious."

"Oh, um, I told Anderson about his father's job and then I upset him cause I didn't know his mother was dead, and I told a girl her father wasn't really her father, and then Mr. Lesley called Father and I was sent home."

"Oh Sherlock, you can't just tell people these things. Those kinds of things are supposed to be secrets for normal people."

"I'm not normal, am I?"

"Well, no, but that's nothing to be ashamed of. I don't suppose I am either."

"Yes, but you're good with people, they like you, Father likes you. He doesn't like me. I'm a freak." he mumbled dejectedly. Mycroft frowned.

"Sherlock, what gave you that impression?"

"Sally said I was a freak since I knew about her and Anderson. She's right isn't she? I am a freak."

"No Sherlock, you aren't. She doesn't know what she's talking about."

"But that's what freak means, doesn't it? It's a bad different."

"Sherlock, you're not bad. Even the idea is preposterous; you're six. You logically can't be."

At this reasoning, Sherlock seemed mollified, at least for now. He nodded smiling that cute smile that caused Mycroft such happiness as he found nowhere else. Smiling back, he then checked his watch, his eyes widening a little.

"I better go, before Father finds us both. Goodnight Sherlock."

"Night Mycroft!" he tried whispering, but it came out rather loudly anyhow in the boy's happiness. Closing the entrance to his baby brother's room, he put his back against it, sighing.

If only the boy would stay six forever, Mycroft thought as he leaned against the door.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mrs. Hudson." Siger Holmes said in an unusually frantic tone, striding into the kitchen quickly and causing the nanny to look up in confusion.  
"Yes Mr. Holmes?"  
"I need you to call the hospital. She's..." he trailed off, watching as Sherlock look up from his yeast experiment. "Get rid of that." he snapped before walking out just as swiftly, leaving Mrs. Hudson and cook to fret as she grabbed the phone, ringing for an ambulance.  
"You stay with cook, Sherlock, alright?" she said tensely after she hung up.  
"What's wrong? Is it Mummy's cough again? Can't you just give her her medicine?"  
"We'll see, ok Sherlock. Just...stay here. And I'd listen to your father and clean that up. It wouldn't do to ignore him right now."  
"Mrs. Hudson, is something bad happening?"  
"No, no need to worry dear. I'm sure everything is just fine. Cook," she turned to him "would you mind making something for Sherlock?"  
The man nodded, the look in his eyes clearly conveying the worry both of them now felt, failing to hide it from the seven year old boy slowly losing track of what he had been thinking before. His mind snapped sharply into gear, imagining all of the terrible things that could have happened.  
As his nanny rushed out, he put his hands in his lap, sighing desolately.  
"Mycroft knew this was coming, and I suppose everyone else did too."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"She's really sick isn't she?" he looked up into Cook's despairing eyes.  
"Yes, but she's going to the hospital. She'll be back soon."  
"Mycroft was researching things about her illness. I can't remember what it was called, I didn't think it important until I realised that that was what Mummy had." his head dropped. "She's dying, isn't she?" His voice cracked as tears started to drip down his face. "Just tell me the truth."  
Cook looked conflicted, before deciding telling him was better in the long run.  
"I believe it is likely, Master Holmes. Is there...anything I can do?"  
"No. If you can't help her, then no. And I know you can't." He pushed his stool back from the counter, forgetting all about his experiment before running upstairs and into his room, where he lay on the bed, weeping.  
~later~  
"Sherlock." He ignored his big brother's voice at the door. It was hoarse and rough. She was gone, since Mycroft never cried. This served to renew Sherlock's tears, and he grabbed onto his blankets as he sobbed. He didn't hear his door open, but he felt the bed dip down as another body sat on it.  
"Sherlock, she's..." his brother's voice cracked, and Sherlock looked up into eyes so full of sorrow that he could hardly comprehend.  
"She's...dead."  
Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck, tears running down the older boy's neck as they both wept for the loss of their mother.  
Sherlock did not remember Mycroft leaving, only that he said he had to do some things for Father, since he was still in the hospital. He made his ways downstairs, noting that Cook had been sent home, most likely Mycroft's doing. He sat down in front of the apparatus that held his yeast experiment, his eyes not taking anything in. For once, his mind was blank. Not whirring with new ideas for new experiments, or pranks he could play when Mycroft came back for the holidays, or how to avoid Father for the whole day so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't get in trouble when he ran off on her.  
No.  
Sherlock's mind was blank.  
Black.  
Dead.  
He had no idea how long he sat there, but he was woken from his stupor when a hand grabbed his shoulder tightly, holding him still despite his squirming in pain. He looked up only to see angry eyes.  
"Father." he whimpered "Please stop. You're hurting me."  
"Bloody brat, this is your doing!" With that he was thrown from the stool, his apparatus clattering to the floor, sending glass shards everywhere, some leaving tiny razor-like slits on the boy's skin, who stared into his father's eyes, void of anything other than hatred. In the back of his mind, the boy noted the smell of alcohol; his father had been drinking.  
"I didn't do anything!" he cried, which was obviously the wrong thing to do, since he was wrenched from the floor. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson walked in just then, preventing any further harm, for the moment.  
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Just who I was about to look for. Poor Sherlock here fell, and smashed his glassware. Would you mind tidying it up while I see to the cuts?" Sherlock's eyes widened as he was almost dragged from the room, and up the stairs, to his bedroom.  
"No, Father, please, please don't-" he whimpered as he was thrown onto the floor once inside.  
"If you hadn't always wound her up, tired her out! You and your stupid, childish fooling. She's dead and it's...it's your fault!" he slightly slurred. If this was a normal occasion, the boy would have wondered at the fact that his father could appear so normal to the nanny while so intoxicated.  
Alas, this was not a normal occasion, it was one that left Sherlock scrabbling away from his father as if he were his worst nightmare.  
"You stupid freak!" his father yelled, shooting a murderous glare at him as he cowered in the corner, tears now starting to run down his cheeks.  
"You don't deserve to get to cry for her. She didn't love you. Nobody could love you, a creep of a child that knows people's private workings like some spy. I loathe the day you were born. The world is poorer for having you in it instead of her." he spat venomously, before he stormed out, slamming the door and thundering down the hall.  
~the next day~  
Sherlock sat in front of the mirror, as he often did when he went to his new mind palace, trying to figure out what was so different, why everyone hated him. He didn't look any different to normal people, bar his striking green-blue eyes, but his father's were rather similar, if not quite as bright. Hadn't Father said he was a creep for knowing things? But he had said Mycroft was brilliant for knowing things. That couldn't be it either. Just as he was contemplating running away, Mycroft entered his room, looking around before spotting him where he was sitting, going and joining him. "Will you be alright on your own today? Father and I must go and make the..." He paused, breathing deeply before continuing "the funeral arrangements."  
"Sherlock." he said, putting an arm around him. When he received no answer again, he shook the shoulder he had a hand on, startling the boy.   
"Oh" Sherlock said once he recognised who it was. "It's you. Sorry..."  
Even on the best of days, Sherlock would never apologise, which would be enough to concern Mycroft, except for the fact there was something that would make his behaviour very usual. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't been acting different, he would have been more worried.  
"You should come out of your room, Mrs. Hudson will only worry."  
"Mrs. Hudson already checked on me earlier." the boy said, still staring into the mirror with no emotion crossing his face.  
"Still, it would be good for you to get out of your room. What about one of your experiments?" A slight wince overcame Sherlock's face for a split second, so fast Mycroft doubted it had even really been there.  
"Father doesn't approve. If it's alright, I'll just stay here." he said quietly, and that was the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned.  
After Mycroft left, Sherlock still did not surface from his room again, even for sustenance. The tray with his evening meal that Mrs. Hudson brought up to him was returned to the kitchen untouched the morning after.  
"Mycroft" the nanny said after depositing the tray, wringing her hands slightly, a look of concern covering her face. "He's not eating. I know we can't expect him to be alright, since he's only seven, but it's unhealthy. I don't think he's slept either. And while I know you're hardly older than him, Mr. Holmes isn't...well, he's not in the right state of mind to be looking after the boy's mental needs. If you would just talk to him..." she trailed off, looking down is sadness.  
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm twice his age. And yes, I'll talk to him, you have nothing to fear. He will be alright, I'll make sure of it."  
As Mycroft entered his baby brother's room once again, he noted that Sherlock had apparently not moved from the mirror since the day before.  
"Sherlock." he said as he sat down next to him. "The funeral is soon. You should get ready."  
He did not answer, instead standing and moving to his wardrobe, from which he pulled his most formal suit, black tie included.  
Mycroft merely waited as Sherlock stripped down to his pants, before putting on the suit one piece at a time. At the tie, he fumbled, knowing it wasn't right and trying to tie it over and over, getting more and more agitated each time, until he threw his hands down, bursting into fresh tears. Mycroft immediately went to him, but stopped when Sherlock flinched away from him. After a moment he knelt in front of him, his hands slowly tying the material as Sherlock sniffed, managing to compose himself again.  
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked when he finished, in regards to him flinching.  
"Don't ask stupid questions." was the only answer he got, and he could not reply to it.  
At the funeral, Sherlock spent his whole time grasping the tails of the coat of Mycroft's suit, while his older brother accepted condolences from distant relatives he either didn't know or most likely didn't care for. As they saw Sherlock hiding, each had a passing remark, some less savoury than others.  
"Poor boy, left without a mother." "Who will keep him in line now? I hear the father's always away." "Always was a strange child, I don't see that changing any time soon."  
At the last comment, he swivelled around, dragging Sherlock with him unconsciously, to see the remark came from some distant aunt on his father's side. Well, he could deal with his family, Mycroft thought as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and made his way back to the car.   
"Ignore them Sherlock, the family never was very nice. All sniping comments and pompous airs." he tried, seeing how what she had said was affecting him, and while Sherlock didn't smile, he looked less depressed, not looking down quite as forcefully. That was the best Mycroft could ask for at the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

When Mycroft came home for the summer break, it wasn't immediately apparent what had changed. He supposed the house was quieter, but that was to be expected, ever since his mother had died. Still, it was unusual.  
When the car left after he unloaded his bags, he was greeted by Mrs. Hudson and his father.  
"Mycroft, my boy, you've grown since I last saw you." he said civilly. "I trust your studies are remarkable as ever? And what’s this I hear about your being offered a position in the government at such a young age? I can’t tell you how proud I am." Even as the words were friendly, his tone couldn't exactly be considered warm.  
"Quite so, Father. It is only a minor position, but it is something. All is well in the mansion?"  
"As good as can be expected. Take your bags inside, lunch is almost prepared."  
As he climbed the stairs to his room, he still could not work out what it was that was bothering him. Coming downstairs and sitting in the dining room, he sat and spoke with his father, telling him of his academic achievements while his father seemed to listen intently. When his brother walked in and sat without a word, he frowned slightly but didn't say anything. He was most likely sulking after an experiment gone wrong.  
It was only when his father pushed his chair back and Sherlock flinched, cringing, that he began to wonder.  
"I fear business calls me away for the rest of the day. It is good to have you here, Mycroft, my boy." he said before dismissing himself.   
Now that he was gone, Mycroft relaxed slightly; he knew that the highest formality was expected around the family, but with his younger brother he knew he need not be so uptight.  
"How has school been, Sherlock? I trust you're keeping up."  
Sherlock mumbled something in the affirmative, keeping his head down.  
"Sherlock, look at me." Mycroft said, tone slightly concerned. "Are you alright?"  
"I'm fine." he forced out, pushing back from the table.  
"Then why won't you look at me?" he asked, confused. When the boy finally looked up, Mycroft gasped. Covering one eye was a dark blotchy bruise.  
"It's embarrassing. I fell out of a tree. People laugh at it." he dropped his head again, trying to walk out of the room.  
"Where are you going?"  
"I have to practice violin. Father says I'm not good enough."  
"Well..." Mycroft felt, for the first time in years, at a loss for words. What about his brother made him so difficult to talk to? "Can't you leave that off just for today? I've just returned."  
"Father will be very angry if I don't..." he trailed off, fidgeting nervously.  
"Well, you can show me you playing then. It's been a while since I've heard anyone proficient at the violin. All of the people at Eton seem to not take it seriously, despite the school's prestigious name." he smiled, lying slightly to try and cheer up his brother. He had always liked being superior.  
"I suppose. Can we do it upstairs? Everyone else will hear it from here."  
"Aren't you happy with your violin playing? At nine you're playing better than many people twice your age."  
"Father says it's not good enough. He doesn't like to hear me play. It angers him." With that he rushed upstairs, his older brother trailing behind him.  
An hour later, and Mycroft was laughing as he sat on Sherlock's bed. After playing many songs, the boy had switched styles to more upbeat songs. Sherlock looked happy, genuinely happy as Mycroft hadn't seen in some time.   
"Come on, you've practised enough for today. We'll go out into the garden. You can show me the tree that defeated the great Sherlock Holmes." he joked, but his smile was dampened when his brother immediately sunk in on himself. Despite that, he put his violin away and agreed.  
Once outside, they walked through the grounds, both content to be silent. Sherlock had never been one to exchange small talk, in fact it was a constant source of entertainment for him to mock Mycroft's overuse of the stuff. "Why you bother making the effort is beyond me, Myc." he had said, and he smiled at the memory of his carefree younger brother. He wished he had him back.  
As they reached the edge of the grounds, he pulled his jacket off. The summer weather was stifling. He gaped at the fact Sherlock was not only wearing a coat, but a scarf too.   
He was pointed towards the taller trees of the boundary.   
"You see the broken branch up there?" the boy said, shoving a finger in the direction of said tree limb. "That broke when I was on it. Fell onto the branch below, hit my face, then landed on my back on the ground."  
"And you're alright? No lasting damage, bar the bruise?"  
"None..." he trailed off, rubbing his elbow. Mycroft noted that he was sweating.  
"Take off that coat and scarf, you'll pass out from heat stroke." Mycroft laughed.  
"I'm cold..." the boy said stubbornly, pulling his scarf tighter. Mycroft smirked, a gleam in his eye, which his brother saw, his own eyes widening. He may not be fond of leg work often, but he made an exception for his brother.  
"No, Mycroft, don't be a child..!" he said before sprinting off just as Mycroft started running for him, hands out to snatch the scarf from his neck. As Sherlock ducked into the trees, Mycroft was right behind him. As they ran, Mycroft tripped, hands and knees covered in dirt, causing Sherlock to giggle uncontrollably, even when he got to his feet, grabbing the scarf and tugging it from his neck. He proceeded to clean himself with the item as best he could, throwing it back after, only to stop smiling immediately. It was as if the world had ground to a halt, and Mycroft had lost all hope of regaining his balance.  
Sherlock picked up on what he was looking at instantly, covering his neck with the scarf, blushing and looking down.  
"Sherlock, where did those bruises come from? Why were you trying to hide them?"  
"They, they were from the fall. I hit my neck too on the way down." He stood suddenly, turning away. "I have to go wash my scarf before Father sees the state it's in. I'll see you later." and with that he bolted, leaving Mycroft to stare after him.  
As he walked back to the house, he was deeply unsettled. It was terribly obvious that those bruises hadn't come from a tree branch. The bruises had resembled hands.

Sherlock did not surface for the rest of the day, telling Mycroft to go away because he had a headache when he tried to enter his room. At some point Mrs. Hudson had taken a tray with food up to him, along with painkillers. The painkillers were the only things that didn't return on the tray later. Mycroft's concern was growing with each passing minute as he desperately tried to piece things together. He had gone out of practice from his time away at school. School, Sherlock had seemed unhappy about school for a while now. Maybe that was it, he was being bullied. Mycroft shuddered at the thought of another child wrapping his or her hands around Sherlock's neck, trying to squeeze the life out of his brother, the act matching up with the bruises.  
He had to tell Father.   
As he made his way into Siger Holmes' study, he moved tentatively. He wasn't sure if he should have knocked, but it was too late now, his father knew he was there.   
"Sir." he said, his tone respectful.  
"Mycroft, my boy, what is it? I'm quite busy at the moment."  
"Yes, I know, but it's important."  
The man turned, curious.  
"Well then, speak up."  
"It's...about Sherlock, sir. I think he's being bullied in school. He...has bruises, bad ones, and he's acting...peculiar."  
His father seemed to look furious for a split second before his mask slipped back into place as he nodded.  
"I'll speak with the school officials before he returns to school. No need to trouble yourself with this, Mycroft, I shall take care of it."   
Relieved, Mycroft had relaxed for the next few days, knowing that the summer break meant Sherlock had some time away from whomever was hurting him, and those people would be dealt with.  
What Mycroft was not to know, or what he refused to think, was that the problem was a lot closer to home. After his son left his study, Siger Holmes had immediately gone to Sherlock's room, barely containing his anger.   
When the child had opened his door, about to tell Mycroft to go away, he immediately widened his eyes at his father's angry demeanour.   
"F-father. What is it?" the boy had asked, terrified. Siger pushed him inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He approached the cowering child, pulling his belt from his trousers, holding the soft side so the buckle trailed along the ground.  
"What did you tell Mycroft?! He thinks you're being bullied in school!"  
"I didn't tell him anything." Sherlock whimpered, his eyes darting between his father's eyes and the belt.   
"Liar!" he shouted before lashing out with the belt, the whistle and whack ringing out as the buckle collided with the boy's thighs. He cried out falling to the floor, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.  
Siger kicked him in the stomach, causing him to roll over clutching his arms around his abdomen, leaving his back exposed.  
"You. Are. Worthless." his father spat, each word accompanied by a swing of the belt, the buckle hitting his back over and over. "You. Should. Have. Died. Not. Her."  
After what seemed like forever to Sherlock, and Siger was satisfied, he wiped the sweat from his brow, breathing hard from exertion.  
"Mycroft is not to know." he said with such malice as to cause the boy to try and crawl away. "Let this be a lesson to you. Disobey me again and it will be the last thing you do." and with that he unlocked the door and walked out, leaving Sherlock in a heap of wracking sobs.  
He kept his door locked to Mycroft for the next week. When the older boy asked Mrs. Hudson, he found some conciliation in the fact that apparently the trays of food that she left at the door came back empty, so at least he was eating. Not a sound was heard from his bedroom the entire time.   
When he finally surfaced, he acted as if nothing had happened.  
"Morning, Mycroft." he had said the day of his reappearance as he walked into the dining room, causing his older brother to drop his spoon in shock.  
"Sherlock. You're..."  
"Yes?" the boy had remarked sarcastically, and Mycroft said no more. The important thing was, he was out. Little did he know that Sherlock had spent his time letting most of the damage heal, allowing him to hide it better. The first night, he hadn't been able to sleep, the pain excruciating whatever way he lay. He had coughed up a little blood, but nothing so serious as to ask for help. He'd probably get beaten worse again afterwards if he had gone to the hospital anyway.  
After Sherlock sat at the table for half an hour, moving his eggs about the plate but never eating any, he stood as soon as Mycroft finished.   
"Can we go out in the garden, Myc?" he asked tentatively.  
"Of course." was the surprised reply he got, causing him to brighten. "I can't stay out for too long though, I have to study."  
Sherlock's shoulders slumped immensely, and he mumbled something along the lines of "Never mind."  
"I'll come out for a bit, Sher, it just can't be too long."  
"It's ok. You're busy. It's fine." he had breathed before walking out of the room quickly, looking like a lost puppy. Mycroft knew not to chase after him. It was too much legwork for a lost cause; he knew when Sherlock didn't want to be followed from experience. He'd never be able to catch him any way, if the boy didn't want to be caught.  
When Sherlock got into the habit of only appearing at odd hours of the day for short periods of time, Mycroft took to listening at his door. To his dismay, the only sounds he was ever able to discern were sobs, and while his heart went out to the boy, Mycroft knew he was useless at comfort, especially with his baby brother. He would just have to hope that his father could sort things out.   
One morning, when Mycroft went to the kitchen early to try and steal a scone, he noticed that the bins hadn't been emptied. Looking inside, he realised that the contents were made up solely of the things Sherlock had supposedly eaten. Mycroft frowned slightly. He hadn't been eating after all. Marching up to the boy's bedroom, which Sherlock hadn't left for two days, he walked in without knocking, only to find him passed out on the floor. Rushing to his side, he pulled his mobile from his pocket as he knelt beside him, calling for an ambulance. As he checked his brother over for any signs of injury, he saw that the thin figure's ribs protruded in an unhealthy fashion. The boy was skin and bones.   
Trying to stay calm, he held a hand over his face as he looked at the fading bruises covering his back and abdomen. The child was a wreck.   
As if his brain only now started functioning, he realised that these wounds couldn't have been made by his classmates; he hadn't been to school in weeks, since break started. It all clicked in his mind, the truth rocking him to his core and making him sick; Siger was his tormentor. Sherlock went on and on about how disappointed, how angry his father always was. He flinched when the man moved, and kept his head down when he was nearby. How could he possibly have not figured this out earlier?   
Pulling his mobile out once more, he called a few contacts he had already made in the government, getting them to send a small police unit. His father would not get away with this. He heard a pounding of a man running up the stairs. As he locked the door to the room, he let his contact in the police know that the man of the house was to be detained on sight. As his father banged on the door, shouting profanities aimed at the unconscious boy on the floor, Mycroft looked out the window, seeing the ambulance and police car arrive in unison. Pulling the window open, he shouted down to them.  
"It's father. We've locked ourselves in but he's banging at the door." he said in a loud voice.  
"Just stay calm, we're coming in. Stay where you are." one of the officers shouted back up before motioning to his partner to follow. As his father shouted through the bedroom door in confusion as to why Mycroft was in there, he heard them kick the door in downstairs. There was a scuffle outside for a minute before silence, then a knock.  
"It's the police, open up. The paramedics are here."  
The rest went by in a flash. One moment Mycroft was seeing his brother being lifted into the ambulance, the next he was in the waiting room, being startled by a nurse.  
"Sorry sir, I didn't mean to shock you. I just wanted you to know that he's going to be fine. At the moment we're giving him nutrients intravenously but he should wake up soon. He’ll make a full recovery."  
Only physically, Mycroft held back. It would take a lot more than a decent meal to fix what had happened to his baby brother.  
Just then one of the police from earlier approached him.  
"If it's okay, Mr. Holmes, we'd like a word about your brother."  
"Of course."  
"For how long has the abuse been going on?" he asked, pulling out a notepad. He was to the point.  
"Unfortunately, I don't know. It could have started from anything up to two years ago, when our mother died. Father changed." Mycroft said slowly, as if saying it would make it true. "I didn't notice because I was away at Eton all the time. It's my fault."  
"No, no, the only one at fault is Siger Holmes. The child was not your responsibility."  
"It felt like he was. I knew Father had changed and I did nothing, and now poor Sherlock is the one to take the fall."  
"I'm sure your brother will be fine. Boys his age always bounce back." the officer said with a small smile but it did nothing to console the elder Holmes brother.   
"My brother is not like other boys his age, or any other age, for that matter. I worry about him. Constantly."  
"Well, the doctors can work on getting him better, and I'll make sure justice is served to Siger Holmes. You have my word." He tipped his hat and then walked off.  
Taking a look out the window of the hospital, Mycroft saw that it was raining, and sighed at the irony of the fact that this was the one time he had forgotten his umbrella.


	5. Chapter 5

With Siger away in prison, Mycroft had gone back to Eton, reassured in the knowledge that Sherlock was safe at home. Concentrating on his academical career, he moved up in the government, his position solidified. Unfortunately, this impacted on his time at the mansion, meaning he rarely had time to visit Sherlock.   
From what the letters from Mrs. Hudson said, apparently Sherlock wasn't as quiet around the house, taking to doing regular experiments. He took the silence from the school as assurance of Sherlock's good behaviour. Being honest, Mycroft was surprised. Sherlock had never been one to follow rules, and so the elder Holmes took this as a sign of Sherlock's improvement. Checking on his grades, they were remarkable, even when he started attending Eton just as Mycroft left. While he didn't board there, Sherlock spent an extensive time there, according to the nanny. Feeling great relief in the knowledge that his brother was getting better, Mycroft stopped feeling guilty about his prolonged absence. At Christmas, he would visit for a few days from university, to the nanny's delight. Sherlock acted civilly, but was no longer the young child that used to call him Mycoff in delight. Taking this as a sign that the boy was growing up, he couldn't have been more pleased. All was right in the mansion. Still, it was that year that Mycroft decided to send Sherlock to counselling. He had previously been sent after the incident with Siger, but the idea was quickly squashed as Sherlock refused to speak about his internal feelings with anyone, especially a stranger. At Sherlock's maturing, however, he thought the idea to be a good one. The boy was still unaccustomed to what was considered regular life, which was solely due to his upbringing. Mycroft considered himself different too.  
It was only when all of the councillor's notes came back, telling that Sherlock was a friendly, open person, and she didn't see any need for him to be speaking to anyone professional, that he began to think that Sherlock was merely doing a brilliant job of hiding his true state. His marks in school could be put down to his genius intellect, not his true performance in the establishment itself.   
Sherlock had always been a brilliant liar. When questioned about friends, he had a list that he said off as if by rote, but when asked if he wanted them over, denied it without pause. Too distracting, he had said. No friends, then. Upon inquiring as to his habits at home, he learned that the boy spent almost the entirety of his time locked in his room.   
Mycroft chastised himself. If he had only looked, he would have picked up on these things. Finally, he decided he would try talking to the boy himself.   
"Sherlock, a word?" he said one morning, the day he was scheduled to leave after his winter visit.  
"What is it, Mycroft? I'm busy." Mycroft scoffed at his impertinent tone.  
"I merely wished to speak about how you..." don't say feel "are dealing with living in the mansion alone."  
"Don't be a prat, Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson is always here, and when she isn't cook is. That's hardly alone."  
"Mind your language. You understand perfectly well what I mean." The boy let out an irritated sound.  
"Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? You want to know how I feel about being abandoned by all of my relatives. Perfectly fine, thank you."  
"Sherlock, you haven't been abandoned..." Mycroft tried, but could see that it was useless.  
"No, I understand." he said in a humourless voice, before starting to speak like their father. "Mycroft is a grown man, and doesn't have time for someone like you. Just a stupid freak of a child that's a nuisance to everyone him." Despite his best efforts, his voice cracked at the end, and Sherlock turned away so Mycroft could not see his face. "Just leave." he whispered, trying to hold in his emotions.  
Trying not to let the sorrow show in his voice, Mycroft cleared his throat.  
"Alright Sherlock. If that's what you want." He watched the boy nod and then turned away to pack his things. Just before getting in the taxi, he spoke to Mrs. Hudson.  
"Please take care of him."  
"I'll do my best, Mycroft. You stay safe too." she soothed, patting his arm before sending him off.  
From then on Sherlock made it very apparent just how unhappy he was.   
A call from Eton not a week later spelled the start of a downward spiral.  
"Sherlock hasn't attended school in over four days. We were wondering if you could confirm that." the principal, had said in a phone call. "Of course, if he's absent for a reason, there's no problem, we merely wanted to double check." Mycroft had smoothed things over, saying he indeed had permission, and was merely sick. He had ended the call with a promise to have him attending school again as soon as his good health returned. Afterwards, he had immediately called the nanny, inquiring as to his brother's whereabouts. She had said that he left everyday for school and arrived at the right time afterwards, which meant that Sherlock was spending his days without supervision. At thirteen, while he could look after himself, it was dangerous for nobody to know where he was during these hours.  
"Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind as to let him know I wish to speak with him when he returns, I would be much obliged."   
He had hung up with a sigh, and found that he could not concentrate until he had this sorted out. Obviously Sherlock didn't see the consequences of his actions in the greater scheme of things.  
When he was finally called back, he was greeted by a bored "What?"  
"You must return to school tomorrow, Sherlock. There is no compromise to be made."  
"But it's boring!" he heard his whiny voice say. "I know all and more than every single stupid teacher that works there, if you can call it teaching, and I hate it."  
"Both points considered, the result is still the same. You must return."  
"But why?" he was asked, petulant.  
"Because, Sherlock, if you do not the authorities will be informed, and my guardian status will be revoked. You will be forced to live with one of our older relatives."  
All he heard was a huff before the phone was hung up. Still, Mycroft was confident in the outcome. While Sherlock could sometimes come across as foolish, he was most definitely not stupid. He knew it was true, that he would have to move, and thus would choose to return to school. His thoughts were confirmed when he called again to follow up with the principal, who was happy to confirm the boy's attendance. At least his brother could be reasonable when needed to.


	6. Chapter 6

"Sherlock, Mycroft is here. Come on downstairs." the nanny shouted up one summer.  
"Tell him to piss off." he had shouted back, sighing as he got up off his bed. Opening the window to let the smoke out, he stabbed the half burned cigarette into the window sill. With the door locked, he had some time to clear the air, but in his current state of mind he found that he really didn't care if Mycroft found out. Picking up his violin he started to lazily perform some sort of rendition of a song he had heard out on the street by a poor violin player He had thrown him a few coins, looking on in boredom.  
Letting out a puff of air at the knock on his door, he tried to ignore it, playing louder.  
"Stop being such a child, Sherlock. Grow up!" Mycroft shouted through the door, and Sherlock stopped dead, remembering how his father had said that to him once. Barely managing to put down the instrument before he flung it, he unlocked and wrenched open the door, teeth bared in an animalistic fashion.

"I'm pretty sure murder isn't a childish thing to do so you may want to leave before I take your advice." he seethed before slamming the door in his face. As the door was opened again, to a red faced Mycroft, he failed to contain the urge to throw something, settling on a pillow.  
As it sailed through the air, Mycroft stopped it with his hand, advancing on his younger brother.  
"Sherlock Holmes, if you do not behave-" He was cut off by another pillow hitting his face head on. Furious, he grabbed the last of them from Sherlock's hands, latching onto the younger boy's wrists tightly. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pinned him against the wall, breathing hard. His blood froze when he heard his brother whimper, letting go of his wrists as if burned. The boy practically fell to the ground, before running out of the room, terror on his face. After debating whether or not he had even the slightest chance of catching him, Mycroft sat on the bed, head in his hands. What had he done?  
Outside, Sherlock was walking along the road into inner London, smoking again. His heart still hammering away, he had trouble lighting the next cigarette after he finished the first, hands shaking and breathe coming in fast gasps. He hadn't felt like that since Siger had last been living with him. Holding back tears out of pride, he walked through the underbelly of London, his destination unknown to all but himself.  
Suddenly, he saw a shifty character in a dark coat, and immediately knew what he wanted. Walking up to him, he mumbled to the man, who handed him powder in exchange for the entirety of the money in his wallet. Walking through a handful of side streets, he found his way around to the back of a bar, picking the lock of the door and going in, making straight for bathroom. As he pulled out the pouch, he quickly separated a line before grabbing a discarded straw from a cocktail from the side of the sink. He washed it before brandishing his penknife and cutting a section out. Snorting the thin line, he rubbed his nose until the tickling stopped.  
Quickly running to a cubicle, he locked himself in, starting to feel the effects already. Why hadn't he thought of cocaine before? As all of the thoughts in his head slowed down, he  
breathed in slowly, relief flooding through him.  
At the mansion, Mycroft was pacing. In the state of mind his younger brother had left in, he wasn't safe to be alone. Calling one of his contacts in the police, he quickly described Sherlock, thanking them when they said they would look for him. Accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson, he sat in the drawing room, trying to figure out how he would repair the damage inflicted by his actions. When he had been sitting in the same place for over an hour with no word of his baby brother, the nanny had sat in with him, trying to comfort him.  
"I'm sure he's just over-reacting. He has been out of sorts for a while now."  
"I nearly hit him." Mycroft said, for once letting his calm façade slip as he looked up at her. "The look of sheer terror in his face. What if he doesn't come back?!"  
"Mycroft, calm down, dear. Firstly, he will come home. He'd never leave us alone here, because he cares, despite what he would have us believe. He will come back." She stood, brushing down her dress. "What you have to worry about is what you'll do once he does."  
***  
The next morning Mycroft was about to check in Sherlock's room when he realised it was locked again from the inside. Knocking, he heard no reply, just the scraping of what he guessed was the armoire, from the weight and the slow speed at which it was moved, the sound stopping in front of him. He was barricading himself in.

"Sherlock, no matter the problems between the two of us, you will have to come out of there at some point."  
Again he got no reply. Sighing, he rubbed his face. This would be difficult.  
What he didn't know was the fact that on the other side of the door, Sherlock was high once again. As the day wore on, he knew he would run out soon, and so the next time Mycroft came to his door, he slipped a note under the door, as his voice would give away his mental state, telling him he wouldn't leave his room until Mycroft vacated mansion. As  
the elder Holmes brother walked away, speaking quietly on the phone, he knew he had won. Half an hour later, the man was leaving in a black car, things packed.  
Coming out of his room, he rushed past Mrs. Hudson, and made his way back to the same dealer as last time. This time, he went to the trouble of buying a small kit for injecting, as snorting the stuff would obviously soon lead to his nasal septum decaying. At least the needle marks would be easier to hide.  
The next few months passed in a blur, with Sherlock finding it easier to deal with people when he was high, the drugs actually quietening the normally roaring never-ending streams of information that constantly ran through his head. Ignoring all of his classmates, he simply didn't speak in school unless he was addressed by someone important, answering politely to keep up appearances.  
At home, he got used to the only noises being a gossiping Mrs. Hudson, and his experiments. With his new found mental capacity, everything in his life felt better. All except the days when he ran out of cocaine.  
Irrelevant, he would think; when he was under its effects, he saw nothing negative. Still, he knew that, with his slow increase of his doses each time, it wouldn't be long before someone realised.  
Again, irrelevant. He found that as usual, he didn't care what others thought. 

With Mycroft forcing himself into his work, he made sure he was busy.  
Knowing he had totally betrayed his younger brothers trust, he couldn't see a way of regaining it. While being stubborn was a dominant trait in both of them, he knew when he was at fault, and what a fault it had been. Any progress Sherlock may have made would no doubt be utterly reversed. What hope was there for them both when he had so utterly failed his own brother?


	7. Chapter 7

"Mr. Holmes, your car has arrived." his secretary said over the intercom.  
"Thank you, Anthea." he replied before walking out of his office, his bag already packed. Sitting into the back seat of the car, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing.  
He still made the effort to visit the Holmes mansion at least once a year, if for nothing but to keep Mrs. Hudson happy. He had stopped trying to help his brother, and since his near attack on Sherlock, he hadn't spoken a word to him. Despite it being totally his own fault, Mycroft couldn't help but feel that his little brother was being extreme; he now only saw flashes of the boy as he walked through the rooms, or his back as he walked away any time he saw him. Though he would never admit it, he missed his brother dearly, missed the little boy's smiles any time he came home from school, the happy 'Mycoff!' he would hear when he was learning to speak, he even missed the biting remarks about his small talk, and the extra pound he had put on. That had stopped. Now it was like Sherlock didn't exist.  
Broken from his trance by the car coming to a halt outside the mansion, the elder Holmes was shocked to see an ambulance outside. As he hurried out of the car in as dignified a manor as possible, he strode over to a weeping Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock was put in the back of the vehicle on a stretcher, apparently unconscious.  
"Mrs...Mrs. Hudson. What happened? Is he not eating again?" Mycroft asked, trying not to appear overly panicked.  
"He...he never did eat properly, but I don't think, I mean to say..." she sniffed slightly, bringing a handkerchief to her eyes. As she continued, Mycroft's heart almost stopped. "I think he's having an overdose on some sort of drug." She returned to her sobbing.  
Frozen, Mycroft could only stand and watch as his baby brother was shut away from him by harsh metal doors, maybe witnessing the last time they would ever be around each other again. What if he never got to speak to him again? Mycroft was suddenly hit with emotions so tangible he was almost forced to his knees.  
What if he died?  
Forced into action, he quickly told Mrs. Hudson to wait with cook, getting back into the car and telling the driver to go straight to the hospital after the ambulance.  
As they drove, Mycroft vowed that he would no longer neglect his brother. Even if the boy never forgave him, he would help Sherlock, no matter what happened. It was time he fixed things.  
When they arrived, Mycroft was told he had to wait as Sherlock was treated, and so, with umbrella in hand, he sat.  
Contemplating how best to approach the problem, he was startled by a nurse, who gave him a sympathetic smile before leading him to the room his brother was being kept in. After he was allowed in to see Sherlock, he noted that without the heavy coat, he looked practically emaciated. How his body functioned at all, when he apparently almost never ate, alone was a mystery. Combine that with drugs, and it was a miracle that Sherlock was in a hospital bed and not on a morgue table.  
Before he could stop himself, Mycroft began to cry. Cry for what his brother had suffered at the hands of their vile father, at Mycroft's, and finally, the abuse of his own design. Head down on the bed, he didn't notice Sherlock had woken until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Head snapping up, he had to blink before he could focus.  
"You're...awake."  
The lithe boy smiled slightly, looking pathetic.  
"Don't be obvious." he whispered, before he was crushed in Mycroft's arms. Of course that would be the first thing he said to him in months. Sherlock hugged him back as tightly as his frail arms would allow, finally taking the comfort he had desperately wanted for so long. With his big brother here, maybe thing weren't so bad after all.  
FIN


End file.
